


Polyester

by stonerowboat



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Cecil is a little bit of an eldritch abomination, Episode Tag, Episode: e032 Yellow Helicopters, Gen, Here There Be Spoilers, I do not want anything to happen to my boys, M/M, POV Carlos (Welcome to Night Vale), Strexcorp, also headcanon, caretaking Carlos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-03
Updated: 2013-10-03
Packaged: 2017-12-28 07:38:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/989453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonerowboat/pseuds/stonerowboat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>StrexCorp is coming to Night Vale. This is Not Good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Polyester

**Author's Note:**

> I am still in denial about the end of Yellow Helicopters. This is my attempt at excorcising that and achieving acceptance.

Carlos remembered Kevin. He hadn't remembered what he'd said and he'd certainly not remembered the man's _name_ ; his double had been maniaclly executing every cool ninja move with a scalpel Carlos had ever mentally choreographed, so every fibre of Carlos' being had been focusing on _staying_ a part of his being at the time - funnily enough, he'd never imagined how to _counter_ those cool ninja moves. He'd not remembered the show even after the storm, except for the vague jarring echo in his subconsciousness that'd left him on edge for two days afterwards. It wasn't until he'd been invited to Old Woman Josie's on the third day by an Erika - the angel, not his ex; that would never stop being weird - and the crotchety old woman had told him, over bitter tea and invisible cornbread, about what had taken place in Cecil's recording booth, that he'd had a name to put to the sound of unease ringing in his mind. He'd stopped by the station for a recording of the show on his way home. It had been too early for Cecil to be prepping for that night's broadcast and Carlos had been inexplicably grateful that he hadn't run into the other man. He'd spent the rest of that day on edge with a strange person's words ringing in his ears and when Cecil's voice had burred, live, through the speakers later that evening Carlos' relief at the familiarity could have been a living thing.

After tonight's broadcast he'd met Cecil at the station: the uncertainty in Cecil's voice as he'd wrapped up had been prompting enough. He'd known he'd made the right call because as soon as it'd been within reaching distance Cecil's shadow had wrapped itself around Carlos' entire leg. Cecil'd followed shortly after, long hands gripping Carlos' shoulders hard, too preoccupied to be gentle. He'd apologised as Carlos got them both into his car, told him he wouldn't be much company - News was News, it did as it wished. Carlos waved him off, gently shooing shadowy tendrils away from the accelerator as he went to start the car, rolling his eyes resignedly when the thing had refused to stay wholly on the passenger side. The drive had been silent, save for the string of strangled inhalations from Cecil as his third eye periodically went kalaedoscopically mad with the influx of News from all over Night Vale.

Carlos still wasn't used to the sight of Cecil registering News - uppercase mandated - but he'd managed to stop freaking out whenever Cecil's two lidded eyes bled white without preamble and the bulging lidless orb in the middle of his forehead came alive with colour. Cecil had said, when he and Carlos had sat down in Cecil's home one morning and 'covered the basics' in Cecil's words, that whenever it happened he became essentially blind to everything else around him and relied on his amorphous, semi-sentient shadow at those times; like a nebulous, ever-changeing guidedog. He'd yanked the thing in question out from underneath the coffee table at that point, muttering about propriety and self-control and apologising flusteredly. Carlos had since taken to thinking of it as a tangible extension of Cecil's subconsciousness. And possibly libido.

This evening however, Cecil's shadow had been too busy clinging worriedly to Carlos' limbs to have been of any help to anybody. Carlos had had to play an intricate, fully-body version of Cat's Cradle: weaving between panicked black strands of smoke as he'd wrestled the two of them out of the car and up into Cecil's small and fairly isolated house, nipping at the other man's finger to draw the requisite amount of blood and open the door. He'd gotten Cecil, still Receiving, settled on the ugly green sofa in the living room, not in the mood to haul another body up the flight of stairs to the bedroom, and had carefully eased himself beneath the other man.

There he sat, quietly pillowing Cecil's head with his thighs, knowing better than to interrupt the Newsfeed with comforting nonsense, instead settling for smoothing a thumb against the unnaturally expressionless brow and stroking through caliginous, impossible shadows with his other hand - the only outlet for Cecil's emotions in this state. Eventually the News peetered out and Cecil's Eye was milk-white and quiet once more, lids closing over his other two as they regained their colour, expression going lax in sleep rather than taught with blind focus. There was the odd flash of colour every now and again but they were few and far between.

Carlos couldn't find it in him to relax - his mind was abuzz at a hundred miles a second: whatever had happened tonight had done so suddenly and en masse. This StrexCorp thing had something to do with Kevin, that man who must have been Cecil's doppleganger when that sandstorm had struck all those months ago. Cecil had since told him about the _other_ radio station - the one out of a nightmare, out of a _nightmare's_ nightmare, and about the dead-eyed man who'd tried to club him to death with his bare hands. Carlos had actively avoided thinking about the place that man must have come from, putting the mental brakes on before he could try to imagine anything about the world beyond _viscera_. Of course, time had stumbled on, underground cities had invaded, boyfriends had been aquired and everything to do with the storm and the dopplegangers had been forgotten or trivialised. That man had become inconsequential, his world not here and, therefore, not Night Vale's problem. Even Carlos who, as a scientist should have known better, had put it out of mind; nothing but another weirdness in this strange place, certainly nothing _dangerous_. But now there were helicopters and propaganda, now StrexCorp was coming to Night Vale, to Cecil's territoty. Now the angels were fleeing and Old Woman Josie was leaving messages on Carlos' phone, smoke-dry voice cracking with worry. Now this company, the one that in all probability owned that other place - were _responsible_ for that radio station slippery with gore and who employed savage dead-eyed people with polyester voices - owned Cecil's microphone. This time the invading army, whatever form it was taking, wasn't just passing through: it had every intention of staying, of making Night Vale into its new Desert Bluffs. Bringing in its new broadcaster to sit in Cecil's place and cradle Cecil's mouthpiece.

Or were they? The way this strange town is run, with its backwards inside-out politics, did that mean that they owned _Cecil?_ The thought derailed Carlos' mental ramblings with all the effectiveness of a supernova, leaving nothing but a great, black, sucking 'What If?' He looked down at his partner, at the rise and fall of his chest and lazy undulation of darkness as he slept and had never, in his entire life, wanted to hear a person's voice as much as he did in that moment, after _that_ thought. He resisted the urge to wake the other man, instead tipping his head back against the sofa and concentrating on as many things as he could to bleach the thought from his brain: the scatch of uphostery against the back of his neck, the rise and fall of Cecil's chest beneath his palm, the sources of the mystery stains on Cecil's ceiling, the birth dates of all of his uni friends...

Carlos spent the night thinking as loudly and as pointedly _away_ as he could and didn't sleep a wink. Instead, he sat on Cecil's hideous green sofa, smoothing the tremours in his hands against his partner's brow and held on to the hope of black velvet in the morning...desperately swallowing the fear of polyester.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, it's not working yet but at least you guys get a very rambly fic out of it. As usual my line's always open, so gimme a holler if you feel like it.
> 
> Kudos are also appreciated. :)
> 
> Rock on brethren.


End file.
